


The Art of Stealing Souls

by PeachWord



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Blackmail, Blood, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:37:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9377030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachWord/pseuds/PeachWord
Summary: Phillip Kramer, in the midst of helping Peter retrieve stolen treasures, keeps Neal in line. Set in Season 3.





	1. Chapter 1

Phillip Kramer was a soft spoken man. In his late-fifties, a veteran within the FBI game, with over 25 years of experience in art crimes. He was the best, simply put, and this was where he gained the respect he commanded when entering a room.

His say was final, and those who questioned him were exiled—sometimes to evidence logging for months or treasury filing for years.

So it really was no question as to how he gained such a strong hold on Neal Caffrey. Boy wonder, James Bonds, Petey’s Pet.

“That’s the thing, Nealy,” Phillip said, swiping his hands across the table, “you’re not going to tell Peter anything. I know you forged that Raphael, I know you switched out the real one too.”

Neal chuckled.

“I don’t think you’ll be laughing so much after you review this,” he said, pulling out a thumb drive from his pocket. “This is the security footage from the building, the apartment—which shows you taking the Raphael, and also the security footage from the surrounding buildings. Where did you acquire such a lovely parachute, by the way?”

Neal’s smile faltered, though only slightly.

“I suppose we could tell Peter how you went to such lengths to betray him. Would you like that, Nealy?”

“I didn’t betray—”

“But you did. He knew you had that Nazi treasure, and you knew it too. And you went over and beyond to lie to him and make him believe he was wrong. I can’t even begin to imagine the look on his face when I tell him all of this. He vouched for you, many times. He promised on his life that you had changed. After all he did for you, taking you of prison and what not. Tsk. Tsk. Really, Neal.”

Neal stood. “I think you should leave.”

Kramer smirked. “I suppose I could, but that would make this an uneven match.”

“What are you talking about?”

Kramer stood. He took his time walking around the table centered in Neal’s lovely Park Avenue apartment. As he neared the younger man, he extended his arm. It landed on Neal’s. He grasped it, holding onto it ever so gently. And then he squeezed, hard.

“You have something I want.”

Neal shook his head. “I don’t have anything you want.”

A smile spread across the older man’s lips, showcasing a perfect row of faded white teeth. “Oh, but you do. It’s wrapped in perfect packaging too.”

An uneasy bubble erupted at the pit of Neal’s stomach. “I don’t have any of the treasure here.”

Kramer chuckled, though it was devoid of any friendliness. “Oh, Neal. I’m talking about you.”

“Wh-what?”

Kramer’s grip tightened. “My passion is art, same as you. I’ve spent my entire career collecting beautiful art in the wrongful possession of others. You are beautiful art, Neal, and you are wrongfully in possession of Peter. I’d like to change that.”

Neal took a step back, though Kramer’s hold did not lessen. “Peter doesn’t own me.”

“That little anklet says otherwise.”

“So you want me in D.C., is that it?”

Kramer shook his head. “You know, for such a brilliant mind, you can be quite dense.”

Neal snatched his arm out of the grip. Though, what he gained in height and agility, he lost in weight. Kramer clasped his meaty hand around Neal’s neck. Neal immediately tried to pull it away, but Kramer squeezed. He pushed the younger man down, sending him to the floor.

Neal grabbed the leg of the chair near his head and pulled it, resulting in it falling on Kramer’s back.

Kramer screamed and in response backhanded Neal across the face.

Crimson red spewed from his nostrils. The warm metallic dripped onto his lips. He lifted his chest up, only to feel a fistful of his hair being grabbed. His head was slammed, hard, into the wooden floorboard beneath him. Stars appeared in his sight, leaving him disoriented.

He felt the tug on his pants.

He heard the belt buckle unlatch.

He moved his hands, through this haze, pushing the others hands away.

Another fistful of hair was grabbed.

_Bam!_

More stars appeared.

His legs were pulled back.

Nails dug into the skin over his hips.

And then, there was real pain.

It was over rather quickly, but those eight minutes were damned eternity. Each heavy pant, each dehumanizing grunt, each drip of his rapist’s sweat that fell onto his now victimized skin.

Bruised, bloodied, raped.

That’s how he was left on the floor.

Like some kind of dying animal.

“Now we both have secrets we don’t want to be told,” Kramer whispered before shutting the door.


	2. Chapter 2

The phone vibrated against the table, over and over. He stirred, unable to make his body move. When his eyes opened, he was looking at the ceiling. He sat up, his back sending shots of pain, a consequence of laying on a hard surface in the same position. He stumbled after the first step and grabbed onto the table for support. His cellphone had two missed calls.

It was Peter.

He looked down at himself. His belt was unbuckled, hanging limply off his waist. He glanced at the floor. Dried blood was cemented between two of the floorboards.

_I wasn’t dreaming._

Hot tears parked in his eyes, though he doesn’t know if they fell. He was numb.

He vomited in the sink—nothing came out.

The phone vibrated again.

He shouldn’t have picked it up, but it was as if he had no control over his fingers.

“Neal?”

“Peter.”

“I left you a voicemail. I know I said we were going to be in the van today, but our target has changed plans. He was spotted at the airport last night, left the country. So you got your wish, no van on Saturday.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? That’s all you have to say?” Peter chuckled.

“I . . . I . . .”

“Were you sleeping?”

“Yea.”

“Of course. If the operation was still on, you would have had to be in the office in ten minutes. Well, you can go back to sleep now.”

“Okay.”

“See you Monday.”

_Click._

The phone fell to the floor, along with more tears.

 

 

On Monday morning, Neal looked in the mirror next to the elevator.

Nothing. No bruises on his face, no cuts. He was dressed impeccably. Everything appeared fine.

He glanced again. Same.

This had been done twenty or thirty times since he woke up.

He entered the office and it was uncharacteristically chaotic.

“Alright, Caffrey, I need you to go through these forgeries,” Diana said, placing an overstuffed box of files on his desk.

He was waiting, waiting for her to turn around and look at him, and say it.

Well, she did do those things, but didn’t say what he was convinced she would.

“What are you waiting for?”

He nodded.

“What’s a matter with you?” she asked, annoyed.

He shrugged, sitting down. “Nothing.”

She rolled her eyes and walked away.

Three hours later, halfway through the box, his name was called.

“Neal? Come up here,” Peter said, standing over the glass partition.

“I need you to look at this closely,” he said, standing over a Dega.

Neal nodded. He bent down and unexpectantly let out a small groan.

“What’s a matter?” Peter asked, eyeing him.

“Nothing, pulled a muscle working out.”

Peter’s eyebrows pulled close. “Okay.”

“It’s a fake,” he said, standing up.

“You sure about that?”

Neal tensed. That voice. It wasn’t Peter’s.

“I think you should look again,” Kramer said, placing his hand on the back of his neck.

He was pushed back down ninety degrees. He couldn’t breathe. Kramer’s hand went over his. The magnifying glass was moved over the painting.

“Look here,” Kramer said, moving Neal’s hand to the corner.

Neal’s fingers lets go of the magnifying glass, though Kramer, crafty, held onto it.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“Well we’re keeping you out of prison so that you do know. Look again,” Kramer said.

Neal closed his eyes, forcing himself to breath. He looked again—the quicker he did, the quicker he could leave. “It’s fake, the accent on the signature is crooked.”

“Let me see,” Peter said.

Kramer ever so slightly squeezed Neal’s neck again and then let go.

“Yea, Neal is right, I see it,” Peter said, peering down. “Hey, where’d he go?”

“He just walked out. Is that the kind of discipline you’re telling me he’s getting, Petey?”

Peter glanced through the glass, only to see Neal heading towards the bathroom.

“You said he was on the straight line,” Kramer asked. “I mean, really. To show that kind of disrespect. Is that what you demand of your employees up here?  I thought I taught you better.”

Peter bit his lower lip, evaluating the beating his was receiving. _He’s right._

 

 

Neal leaned against the bathroom door. He sucked air in and pushed it out, over and over, however, none of it made it to his lungs. He leaned down to his knees, trying again. Nothing.

He ran to the sink, turned the water on. His hand burned from Kramer’s touch. He scrubbed. Water went on his face. He bit his lip, trying not to scream. He closed his eyes.

_Think of something nice._

Monets.

_No, Kramer is looking for the ones you stole._

Artisan coffee.

_No, Kramer smelled of Arabic beans._

Kate’s blue eyes.

_No, Kramer has blue eyes._

Kate’s skin on his.

_No, rough hands were on him, touching him where she might have._

“What the hell is a matter with you?” Peter asked, walking in.

Neal opened his eyes.

“Seriously, Neal. Have I not done enough for you? And you embarrass me like that?”

His lips parted. “I . . . uh—”

“No, I don’t want to hear it.” He looked him up and down, dismissing his wet face, the redness in his eyes. “You’re going to tell me you don’t feel well, is that it?”

“No—”

“Save it, because I don’t care. Don’t embarrass me like that again.”

Peter stormed out, leaving Neal alone with his tears.


	3. Chapter 3

A week had passed since Kramer’s _visit_. As Neal sat at his kitchen table, alone, he stared at the stain still on the floor.

He couldn’t look at it a second longer.

He got down on his hands and knees. He used soap, alcohol, and then bleach.

It wouldn’t come undone.

He collapsed on his elbows, breathing in the toxic fumes. His hand swept across the surface. _This is where it happened._  

He crawled to his easel. The brown paints caught his eye. Color #63, mixed with a little #2 white. Yes, that would do it. The palette was laid next to the stain, his brush swirled, faster and faster. Then he stroked along the wood.

No one would ever know.

“Jesus, it smells like Mr. Clean took a shit in here,” Mozzie said, opening the door.

Neal forced a chuckle as he ran the brush underneath the water coming out of the sink. “Spring cleaning.”

“Well, mon frère, you should think about summer cleaning. August is around the corner, perfect beach season. What island shall we buy?”

Neal sighed and turned off the faucet. “I’ve been thinking Moz, I don’t want the treasure.”

“Of course, we are selling it.”

Neal shook his head. “It’s not ours to sell.”

“What are you thinking? Turn it over to the Feds? Are you nuts?”

“It’s just more trouble than its worth.”

“Oh really? The  trouble is worth more than the millions, possibly billions that treasure is worth?”

Neal sighed again. “I think it is.”

“I knew it. You’ve turned. You’ve been spending too much time with the suit.”

“No, its not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Mozzie frowned. “Neal, is this about something else?”

“What? No.”

“You’ve been acting . . . peculiar this week, that’s all I am saying.”

“We’ll get caught.”

“Speak for yourself,” Mozzie said, pointing to his ankle. “I’ve never been caught, and never will be.”

Neal nodded.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll keep your half safe and sound, give you time to think about it. I’ll be out of town for a while, you know how to reach me.”

Neal nodded again.

 

 

“Don’t know what you did to piss Kramer off, but I do no envy you right now, Caffrey,” Jones said, putting down a box full of old cell phones.

Neal sighed, looking at the fresh arrival. There were eighteen boxes similar to it that he was to log and file in the small evidence room.

“It’s Peter,” Neal said. “He’s just putting on a show for . . . his old boss—showing him I’m useful for things other than uncovering forgeries.”

Jones nodded. “Well, I’ve got to get going. We’re going to the van, hopefully going to catch those Young brothers in the act.”

Neal nodded.

“Don’t work too hard, and eat something—looking a little scrawny there Caffrey.”

Neal chuckled.

He sat on the floor for the next hour. Picked up a cellphone, put it in a clear bag, labeled it, dotted its number on the paper, and put it on the shelf. He repeated this 107 times.

“There’s no way you could possibly have another box full of phones,” he said to whomever had just opened the door.

_Click._

Neal looked up. Kramer had just locked the door and placed the folding chair underneath the handle. He stood up, unquestionably horrified. _No, no, no, no._

“Sit back down.”

Neal disobeyed.

If there was room, he would have stepped back as Kramer stepped forward, but there was none and his back pressed against the shelf.

Kramer’s hand was on his hip. He leaned in until his lips touched his earlobe. “I said, sit back down.”

“I’m going to scream.”

“I have no doubt about that.”

“You will not touch me again.”

“I’ll do whatever I damn well please, including putting you back in prison if you disobey me once more. I have that power you know? There won’t be a thing Peter can do about it.”

Neal pushed the older man. Kramer slammed him back against the shelf, keeping his hand pressed against his chest. He took his other hand and placed it on Neal’s belt.

“You know, I just wanted you to suck me off, but I can see you are vindictive and would use your teeth. I’m showing you discipline right here.”

Kramer turned Neal and pushed his back down, wedging him in between the small space of the two standing steel shelves. Neal thrashed his hands, pushing whatever boxes or pieces of evidence around him to the ground.

Kramer’s hand reached around and placed it over Neal’s mouth.

He heard Kramer spit as he continued to thrash. He stopped moving seconds later. He couldn’t get limb to move after the grave waves of pain thrust into him. Over and over.

The _fun_ lasted twelve minutes this time.

Spit and tears dribbled over Kramer’s hand, still tight over his mouth, even after he finished.

It was slowly removed, traveling back and then up towards his head. A fistful of hair was grabbed, yanking him upright. He was turned around, again his back was shoved against the shelf. Kramer took a hold of his chin. “That was fun. Now get back to work.”

Just as calm as he entered, Kramer removed the chair and left.

Neal pulled his pants, using his trembling fingers to tuck his shirt back in. He fell to the floor and brought his knees to his chest.

_How did that happen?_

He ran his fingers through his hair and wiped his tears on his sleeve. He looked around the small room. It looked the same as it did an hour earlier.

_Maybe it didn’t happen. Maybe I imagined it._

 

 

“Alright,” Peter said, opening the door, “let’s see what kind of damage you’ve done.”

Neal was sitting against the shelf, his knees still to his chest. Cell phones and plastic bags were strewn around him.

“Seriously? You haven’t even finished one box?”

Neal, who had been staring aimlessly, looked up.

“It’s . . . there’s a lot . . .”

“I know you might think this is below you,” Peter sneered, “but honestly, you have should have gone through at least four or five.”

Neal swallowed, trying to keep the bile down his throat.

“What is going on with you? You barely say anything anymore, you don’t finish the work I ask you to. Do you _want_ to go back to prison?”

“No,” he whispered.

Peter’s eyes softened. _Something isn’t right._ He kneeled down. “What’s wrong?”

Neal shook his head softly.

“I know I’ve been hard on you these last few weeks, Kramer is really on me.”

“Don’t . . .” He wanted to tell Peter not to say that name, but couldn’t bring himself to finish.

Peter saw the strain in his eyes. He looked around, noticing everything on the shelves was crooked. He then noticed the uncharacteristic way Neal’s hair laid improper. “Hey.”

Neal’s head snapped up, his focus returning.

“Is everything okay?”

Neal’s lips parted. This was it. Forget about the treasure, Peter would forgive him.

“How did it go with the Young brothers, Petey?”

Peter looked over his shoulder. Kramer stood with a file in his hand.

“This should have been done,” he continued, looking around.

Peter stood.

“Can you tell me, Neal, why these cell phones haven’t been logged in yet?”

“He was just getting to it,” Peter defended. He glanced down at Neal whose attention had gone back to the floor.

Kramer nodded. “He shouldn’t leave here until it’s done. Now, Peter, I have an update on those Monets I was looking at. We have found a lead.”

Peter glanced once more at Neal. “Finish up here, I’ll drive you home later.”


	4. Chapter 4

 “I’m sorry if I’ve been tough on you,” Peter said.

Neal nodded, keeping his head towards the window.

“Look . . . is everything okay?”

“Fine.”

Now Peter nodded, though the air was thick with awkwardness. He stepped on the brakes as he neared a red light.

“How about we get some burgers? El is out of town, she won’t be able to smell the red meat on my breath.”

“I have an upset stomach.”

Peter licked his lips.

“It’s Kramer, isn’t it?”

Neal’s head jerked up. His eyes widened slightly.

“I know he’s not your favorite, but he’s really helping with the Young Brothers. We’re really close to catching them. He’ll only be here a few more weeks.”

_This is it, say it! Tell him!_

“Besides, I think he’s taken a liking to you,” Peter said, turning right. “He’s said a few times how you’ve really been walking the straight line, more disciplined and whatnot. That’s got to make you feel good, no?”

Neal noticed his fingers twitching. “I—”

“Hold on, El is calling.” Peter hit the green button on his dashboard.

“Hey, hunny,” El said, her voice filling the car.

Neal licked his lips and slouched further into his seat.

Peter pulled over to the curb, right in front of June’s mansion. Neal opened the door.

“I’ll see you Monday, don’t get into too much trouble,” Peter said.

Neal watched from the curb as the Taurus pulled away. He stood there longer than he should have, thinking.

 

*****

 

Neal yanked the cover off and sighed. He glanced at the clock: 1:43.

“Damn.”

Monday morning was soon approaching.

_Just tell Peter. He’ll be more upset about what Kramer did than the treasure._

_But maybe he won’t be._

He had managed to make it two weeks without another ‘incident’, such as the last one the break room. Kramer had walked by his desk multiple times, and psychotically didn’t say a thing, or simply asked him how he was doing.

He never responded.

If tomorrow’s sting went well, and they finally caught the infamous Young Brothers in the act of selling fake Monets, then Kramer would be back to Washington. He went over the plan in his head again, this _had_ to go well, the Young Brothers case had to be closed tomorrow.

He felt his eyelids grow heavy. He breathed in deep and fell asleep.

He doesn’t know how long his eyes were closed, but he strangely felt a hand on over his mouth. His eyes shot open.

“Shh,” Kramer whispered. “Do not scream.”

Neal’s heart raced.

_No, this is a nightmare. Wake up! Wake up!_

“You know, Neal, the good thing about having an anklet on you, is that I can get a key to your residence from the Marshall upon simple request. They ask no questions. In fact, they told me they wished more senior officers did more random house checks on their ‘pets’.”

Neal shook his head; the tears were already in his eyes.

Kramer placed the weight of his right knee on the bed, allowing him to lean over while applying more pressure over Neal’s mouth. His hand crept under the hem of Neal’s shirt, it glided over his skin; up and then down. “This may very well be our last night together, Neal.” He leaned in, his mouth now next to Neal’s ear lobe. “I’m going to take my time, this time.”

Kramer removed his hand. “If you scream, I’ll break your neck. And then I will break June’s neck.”

Neal didn’t say a word. As slowly as he could, he curled his back, elevating his shoulders. However, Kramer placed a firm hand on his chest, pushing him back down flat.

“Please, I won’t tell anyone. Don’t do this. You can’t do this. It’s not right.”

Kramer chuckled. “That seems a bit ironic. _You_ telling me what is right and what is wrong.”

Neal felt his body shaking. He couldn’t let this happen again. He just couldn’t. His left hand curled into a fist. He raised his arm, pulled back and shot it forward.

Kramer was quicker.

He grabbed Neal’s fast in a swift motion, pulling him forward. He pushed him into his stomach, twisting his arm around his back. Kramer put his entire weight on top of him and leaned over towards Neal’s head. “That was very bad.”

Neal winced at the immediate pain. He shut his eyes and Kramer’s fingers ran through his hair.

_This isn’t real. This isn’t real._

But after the first rough thrust, he knew it was.  

 

 

  ****** 

 

 

“Alright, let’s get you wired,” Peter said, throwing the Young file on the table.

Neal’s head perked. “Wired? Why don’t I just wear the watch?”

“Because you’re pretending to be a truck driver. Truck drivers don’t wear gold watches. C’mon, lift up your shirt,” he said, picking up the microphone wire.

Neal licked his lips. “I can do it.”

Peter chuckled, continuing to untangle the lines. “Not once have you ever been able to wire yourself, in all the years I’ve known you. Stop messing around, we’re wasting time.”

Neal felt his chest constrict.

“What are you waiting for? Shy all of a sudden,” Peter joked, reaching for the top button of Neal’s shirt.

“Don’t,” Neal said, swatting his hand away. “I . . . I don’t want to do this.”

“Seriously, stop playing games. This is your job.” He reached again.

“Stop,” Neal said, taking a step back. _What do I do? What do I do?_

“I mean it, Neal, we’re wasting time!” Peter screamed, this time he yanked the shirt, and as expensive as it was, it didn’t stand a chance against the strength against it. Three buttons popped off.

Neal stood motionless.

“Sorry,” Peter said, unbuttoning the remaining ones. In the process of this, he dropped the tape. He bent down and focused on affixing it to the wire. “Alright,” he said, looking up.

Neal, still motionless, kept his eyes on the floor. His chest and stomach were exposed. The bruises on his ribs, the marks on his hips, the redness underneath his collar bone.

He was mangled.

“Wh-what? What the hell?” Peter whispered. “Neal.”

But Neal didn’t say a thing.

“Take your shirt off,” Peter whispered.

Neal didn’t do a thing.

Peter put the wire on the table, he couldn’t give a damn about the Young brothers. He stepped closer to Neal and gently placed his hands on the shirt. He pulled it off his shoulders. It hung limply off his arms. Peter trembled as he walked around the younger man.

His back.

Black and blue.

More cuts.

Scabs.

“Who did this to you?” the anger in Peter’s voice was not in question.

But Neal couldn’t speak, only tears struggling to be contained could be heard.

“Who did this to you?” Peter repeated, only this time it was softer.

_Knock, knock._

“Hey, boss, we’re all set up in the van—”

“Not now Jones,” Peter said under his breath.

Jones’ eyes widened. He closed the door to Peter’s office, locking it behind him. “What happened?”

Peter glanced at him, shaking his head. “Neal? Neal, look at me.”

Neal lifted his head. His eyes were red, but he had stopped crying. “I . . . I told you I didn’t want to go undercover today.”

Peter nodded. “Okay, you don’t have to. I . . . I need you to tell me who did this to you.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to.”

Peter nodded. “Can you tell me when this happened then?”

“Some of these are old,” Jones whispered.

Air hitched inside Peter’s throat. As if what he was seeing was not bad enough, the shock had worn off minimally enough so that he peered closer, and indeed confirmed the former statement was true. Some of the marks were faded, while others looked fresh—perhaps even less than 24 hours old.

“C’mon,” he said, lifting the shirt over Neal’s shoulders. He took his jacket off and placed it on his shoulders. “Jones, would you go get my car and bring it to the curb?”

“Yea, no problem.”

Neal walked in front of Peter, his head down. The other agents were minding their own business and didn’t pay attention. To them, it was just another day.

“You need to talk to me, Neal,” he said in the elevator. The two were alone.

“I . . . don’t know what to say.”

Peter, not wanting him to shut down even further, said nothing else.

“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” Neal said as the car veered onto the West Side Highway.

“Umm . . . but, you might really be hurt.”

Neal chuckled. “Yea, I _might_ be.”

“What about a doctor?”

“Nothing can be done. It’s too late.”

“Wh-what does that mean?”

Neal closed his eyes.

_The hot breathe on his neck._

_The saliva on his lips._

_The hands on his hips._

_The pain._

_The laughter in the background._

“Stop it!”

Peter’s foot slammed on the brakes.

The car jerked to a stop.

Neal breathed in and out loudly, like air couldn’t get through.

“Stop!”

“I’m not doing anything, Neal.”

“Stop! Stop!”

The cars behind were honking, screaming obscenities, swerving around—giving Peter the finger.

He couldn’t give a damn about any of it.

“I—I can’t. I can’t breathe,” Neal wheezed, reaching for his seat belt. His fingers trembled terribly as he fumbled to unlatch it.

Peter reached for the belt and popped it undone.

“I have to . . . go.” He reached for the door handle.

“Neal.”

Neal fumbled to lock button, pressing it over and over again.

“Neal. Look at me,” Peter said calmly.

He stopped with the lock and slowly turned. His breathing was erratic but something about the face in front of him, calmed him.

“Count to ten aloud, slowly.”

Neal entire body trembled.

“C’mon, one . . . two . . .”

“Three,” Neal said. “Four.”

“Good, keep going.”

“Five. Six. Seven.”

Peter nodded, slowly reaching for the steering wheel. He put the car in park and gently pressed his foot on the gas.

“Ten.”

“Keep going, slowly.”

“Eleven. Twelve.”

They were at the hospital by number 42.


	5. Chapter 5

As soon as the nurse put the hospital gown on the bed, right next to Neal, that was when he realized where he was. His eyes focused, seeing the pale blue. His sense of smells ignited, breathing in the sterile scent.

“It’s alright,” Peter said.

Neal put his hands on the bed and pushed himself off. Peter, gently, placed his hands on his shoulders. “I just want to make sure nothing is broken, that’s all.”

Neal shook his head. “I—I’m fine.”

“I know, I just need the doctor to tell me that. Then I’ll take you home, okay?”

The way Peter said it, like it made so much sense, Neal nodded.

A middle aged women, dressed in a white coat, with short blonde hair, entered. “Hi, I’m Dr. Brexler,” she said, picking up the chart on the table. “What seems to the problem today?”

The nurse said some words, but Neal didn’t catch them. He saw in his peripheral view Peter talking to the two women, but again, not a word was heard.

“Hi, Neal,” Dr. Brexler said. She had a smile on her face. “Would it be alright if I looked at your back for a minute?”

He swallowed the bile in his throat. He glanced around. Peter was standing by the door. His escape would never work.

He stared aimlessly as the gown fell to the wayside. Cool air hit his skin and he shivered when the doctor’s fingers grazed it.

Although he could see it, Dr. Brexler’s smile faded immediately upon seeing his back.

“Neal, would you mind laying down, please.”

He did as instructed.

“I’m going to remove the gown, alright?”

He didn’t say anything. He still had his pants on, he wouldn’t be completely exposed.

More cool air hit his skin, he didn’t see her expression as he stared at the ceiling, counting the marks on it.

He winced when she pressed against his ribs. Then he felt her fingers travel downwards. She didn’t press against his hipbones, but her fingers certainly traveled there, circling the bruises in the shape of distinct fingerprints.

Dr. Brexler lifted her head. Her eyes darted towards the nurse. “Agent Burke, I’m going to need for you to leave the room.”

“Umm, why?”

“Because I asked you to.”

Peter swallowed. His hand traveled to the back of his neck; he scratched for a few seconds. “Uh—okay, sure.”

The nurse closed the door.

“Neal?” Dr. Brexler said.

“Yea?” he answered, his stare still on the ceiling.

“Neal, do you want to tell me how you got these injuries?”

“Not particularly.”

“Neal, you have bruises on your hips.”

“Yea.”

Dr. Brexler nodded. “Neal, your injuries are consistent with rape victims. Have you been sexually assaulted?”

Neal didn’t say a thing, though the tears sliding down his face said everything.

“Is Agent Burke . . . did he do this to you?”

Neal sat up immediately. “No.”

Dr. Brexler saw the anxiety in his face.

“Peter didn’t do this.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, I’m here to help you.”

“It wasn’t him.”

Dr. Brexler nodded. “Okay, can you tell me who did this to you then?”

Neal’s entire body shook. “Please, I just want to go home.”

“Okay, I understand. But I need you to work with me here so that can happen.”

He stared at her for longer than he should have. “Kramer,” he whispered finally.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I . . . I need to go,” he said. He stood up and reached for his shirt.

“Woah,” Dr. Brexler said, moving out of the way. “Neal, listen to me.”

He ignored her and threw the gown to the floor.

“I want to discharge you, okay?”

He stopped and looked up.

“And I will do that, I promise, but you may have two broken ribs. I’m sure you are in a lot of pain.”

He licked his lips and nodded once.

“Okay, so I want to take a quick x-ray, would take no more than hour, and then you can go.”

He bit his lip, contemplating the offer. _One more hour…one hour less that Kramer could potentially find me._

He nodded.

Dr. Brexler nodded, “Okay, I’ll call the lab right now and get a technician.” She turned to the nurse and motioned for her to follow her towards the door. “Set up an IV, he’s dehydrated. And get me a rape kit.”

She exited the room. Peter was seated in a chair against the wall. He stood up upon seeing her. “Is he okay?”

She sighed. “Neal is a ward of the state, correct?”

He nodded, the anxiety in his face never lessening.

“And you are his medical proxy?”

“Yes, I can get you the paper work.”

“That’s not necessary, we can look that up here.”

“Doctor, can you please tell me if he is okay? You’re really freaking me out.”

“I’ll need to verify the medical proxy information, until then I cannot discuss anything with you.”

 

 ******

  

Peter felt the vibrations against his hip. They were long and drawn. They stopped after a minute. Thirty seconds later, they started again.

“Can you please tell me what the hell is going on?”

Dr. Brexler glanced up from the paper in her hand. This Agent Burke apparently was Neal Caffrey’s medical proxy.

“Agent Burke, do you know of a man named ‘Kramer’?”

Peter eyes slightly widened. Then they narrowed. “Kramer?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“Phillip Kramer did _that_ to him?” He laughed, though it was devoid of lightness. “There is no way. No.”

“Agent Burke, I’m not a mind reader. I didn’t magically conjure this name or this man known as ‘Kramer’. I am simply repeating what was said to me.”

Peter’s lips parted, as if he wanted to argue. “I . . . I”

“I understand you are law enforcement. Now while I do not have evidence at the moment to support that this man is responsible for the injuries, I might have some in just a few hours, though I pray that I don’t in a way.”

Peter’s throat went dry. “What does that mean?”

Dr. Brexler continued to sign away on some charts.

“What does that mean?”

She put her pen down and pushed her hair behind her ear. She looked up. “Neal has scars and bruises in very specific places that lead me to believe he has been sexually assaulted.”

A powerful, invisible punch socked Peter in the stomach. He couldn’t breathe. “I … uh . . .”

“And given his behavior, which is consistent with that of sexual assault victims—”

“Wait,” Peter said, holding up his hands. “I . . . I don’t understand.”

“Agent Burke, I’m not trying to lead to a conclusion. I’m about to perform a rape kit on him, and we’ll have some answers.”

“He would have said something to me.”

Dr. Brexler raised her brow. “Well he didn’t.”

 

 *******

  
“Okay, Neal,” Dr. Brexler said, “We should have the x-ray in a couple of minutes.”

He nodded.

She pulled the rolling stool to the bed. “Neal, I’d like to perform a PERK; it stands for physical evidence recovery kit.”

He glanced at her.

“I won’t lie to you, it is invasive. It would take a few hours to do. It’s your decision.”

He didn’t respond. The doctor took this as a good sign.

“You don’t have to press charges against whoever did this to you, but if you decide later to, you will have the evidence.”

“Are you going to do it?” he asked. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Yes, and Nurse Quinn, the woman who put your IV in, would assist me.”

Neal licked his lips and stared back up at the ceiling. He nodded. “Okay.”

 

Nurse Quinn took a sample of his blood.

She then swabbed his mouth.

Dr. Brexler scraped underneath each one of his fingernails.

She then took a swab of _other_ parts of his body.

Hair samples, from multiple parts of his body were taken.

Then he was photographed.

Neal could only think of three other times, besides this one, where he felt this humiliated.

Nurse or doctor didn’t say anything when he started to cry. He simply accepted the tissue from the nurse and did as instructed.

‘Lift your arm, please.’

‘Turn left, please.’

‘Open your mouth, please.’

Three hours later, it was over. Nurse Quinn gave him a carton of apple juice and Dr. Brexler gave him an ativan.

“Get some rest, Neal. I’ll be back in a little while to check on you, okay?”

He nodded as he felt his eyelids grow heavy. He eased into sleep, feeling a little lighter than he had in weeks.


	6. Chapter 6

His bottom was numb; three hours upon the plastic would do that—this he knew.

He didn’t care.

_How the hell did this happen?_

_Why did this happen?_

Peter ran his hand over his face for the tenth time. There was no answer out there, none that would satisfy him.

“Agent Burke.”

He looked up. Dr. Brexler was standing before him.

It was an instinct to grin; there was no saliva coating his tongue to form words at the moment.

“I have the results from the kit.” She sat down next to him. Peter peered over to her lap. The folder remained closed. What was underneath it was damned.

And yet she opened it and handed him the single white sheet of paper that revealed all he prayed would never exist.

‘ _Skin cells not belonging to patient found underneath fingernails’_

_‘Pubic hair not belonging to patient found on patient’s body’_

_‘Semen not belonging to patient found in and on patient’s body’_

_‘Blood found on patient’s interior buttocks area belong to that of patient’_

Peter crumpled the paper slightly; his tears had already fallen. He covered his mouth with his hand.

“I didn’t know, I swear,” he sobbed softly.

Dr. Brexler nodded, again pushing her hair behind her ear.

“This Kramer, can he be found?” she asked.

Anger immediately seethed, foamed at his tongue, steamed from his ears. “Yes,” he sneered, standing up.

She nodded again. “I’m keeping Neal overnight, for medical reasons of course. He is asleep now and will be for some time. Can this _man_ be found within that time frame?”

“I won’t need that long.”

 

****** 

 

“Peter, I saw you walk in. I waited as long as I could before coming up. How is he?” Jones asked, closing the door to his boss’ office.

Peter licked his lips, contemplating the answer. “I need Neal’s tracking information.”

Jones nodded. Peter was already at the Marshal’s homepage. He watched his boss enter in the required information. The two waited in silence as the pages of the last 3 weeks, regarding Neal’s every whereabout, printed.

He handed Jones the first 10 ten pages. “Look for anything unusual. If Neal wasn’t at home, at this office, or with me, highlight it.”

The two, for the next half hour, looked with meticulous eyes.

“There’s nothing here, at least in the pages I have,” Jones said. “I did notice that the time logs go back as far as the amount of time . . .”

“That Phillip Kramer was here.”

Jones nodded. “Kramer did this to him, didn’t he?”

Peter squeezed the highlighter in his hand. He dropped it for fear of breaking it. “Yes. And that’s not the whole story Jones. My only question is, where did he do these things to Neal? I don’t have any activity on here where it shows he was somewhere he shouldn’t have been . . . unless . . .”

Jones’ eyebrows closed together. “Unless what?”

Peter exhaled as he ran his fingers through his hair. “No. No, no, no.”

“What?”

“Don’t you see? Kramer did these things right here! In this office, in Neal’s home!” Peter shook his head, anger and sadness exhuming all at once. “Right under my nose.”

“Peter . . . no one noticed anything—”

“You saw those bruises on him, didn’t you?”

Jones nodded.

“So there are no excuses. I should have seen it. The way Neal tensed up every time he came into the room, the way . . . the way . . .” Peter shook his head. “God dammit, the day in the evidence room. No.”

“What?” Jones asked.

“I saw it right there, under my nose. The way Neal acted, I knew something wasn’t right. I just never . . . I never thought …”

_Knock. Knock._

“Petey, how’d it go today with the Young Brothers?”

Peter’s mouth hung partially open. Venom sprouted from his fingertips to his toes. He flipped the papers in his hand over, so nothing could be seen. “It . . . didn’t happen. Try again tomorrow.”

Kramer shook his head, disapprovingly of course. “I’m sure this is Neal’s fault.”

Peter bit his lip. “Yes, it was actually.”

“Of course. Are you instilling any kind of discipline at all with him?”

Peter didn’t respond. He was counting numbers in his head. He had to keep his cool.

“I guess it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t appear to do much anyways. I’m going to have to talk to him myself again. Another surprise check-in should scare him.”

Peter swallowed the bile in his throat. “Yea, that would be good.”

Kramer exhaled loudly. “Alright, well better luck tomorrow.”

Once Kramer was out of sight, Jones finally spoke. “What the hell was that? Why didn’t you rip his goddamn head off?”

Peter fell to his seat, still trying to calm his nerves. “You don’t understand Jones. I would have loved nothing more.”

“Well tell me so I do understand.”

“Just get Diana in here, put together a small, discrete team. We’re going to catch this son-of-a-bitch red handed.”

 

 ******

   

The Ativan wore off after four hours, and slowly, he woke.

The room was pale blue, same as when he closed his eyes.

It still smelled of distilled bleach of too much plastic.

“Hey,” Peter said. His voice was soft, hindering on a whisper.

Neal didn’t verbally respond, but he made brief eye contact.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Neal turned slightly onto his side, letting his back face his visitor. He heard Peter’s feet move, slide across that linoleum floor. He reappeared, facing the patient once again. He bent down, resting his forearms on the bed.

“I would have done something. You know I would have, right?”

“I’m sorry.”

Peter shook his head. “Please. You have _nothing_ to be sorry about. I’m the one who should apologize.”

Tears formed, yet again, in Neal’s eyes. He hated it. He hated always crying.

“I took the treasure.”

Peter nodded. “Well that doesn’t surprise me, but the rest of this does.”

“It’s in a warehouse in Brooklyn. I didn’t sell it; it just sort of fell into my lap. I don’t want it though.”

Peter nodded again. “Okay. I appreciate you telling me this, but that’s not my concern right now.”

“He threatened to tell you.”

Anger bubbled almost immediately within Peter’s bones. “So he used that to . . . do this.”

Neal nodded, wiping away his tears on his arm. “I tried to stop him, I did. I . . . I—”

“Shh, it’s alright,” Peter responded, lightly grazing his arm. “How . . . how many times . . .”

“Three.”

Peter exhaled, shaking his head while he did so. That was three times too many.

“Don’t let him to do it again, please.”

Peter’s face contorted in a seemingly wall of great pain, as if he had been slapped. “Oh, Neal. He’s not going to touch you again, I promise.”

Neal sniffled back his remaining tears. “If we get the Young Brothers, he’ll leave right, go back to D.C.? We could still do the sting, tomorrow. Even tonight—”

“Do you honestly think he’s going to get away with this? Do you think I would let that happen? He’s not going back to D.C., he’s not going anywhere except to a penitentiary or six feet under the ground.”

“And I’ll be going there too.”

“What do you mean?”

Neal licked his chapped lips. “He’s got video, of me . . . it doesn’t matter.” He turned onto his other side, again away from Peter.

Peter studied the skin exposed through the back of the gown. It was purple and blue in some parts. What kind of pain the man lying here had endured would haunt him, perhaps for the rest of his life. “Neal, I don’t care what he has. Don’t worry about it, please. I will take care of this. You are not in trouble, far from it.”

“I’m tired, Peter.”

Peter nodded, though he knew it couldn’t be seen from this angle. “Just rest.”

He waited until light snores could be heard. Only then did he move.

He glanced down at his watch. It was almost 9:30.

Time to take care of business.


	7. Chapter 7

The sheets had been changed.

They were crisp and ghostly white. Not a crease lay in them, not a wrinkle of any kind.

But Peter found the ones that were hidden.

They were bunched in a ball under the kitchen sink. He removed it, of course while wearing latex gloves. He saw the blood stains on it.

As he placed it in the evidence bag, he tried so desperately to go through with the plan he had mapped out hours earlier. But would his anger allow it?

He set up the cameras, hidden in plain view of course.

“Jones, can you hear me?”

“Yes, loud and clear.”

Peter readjusted his ear piece. “Okay, I don’t know what time this son-of-a-bitch will be here, or if he’ll even come here at all.”

“It’s alright, I’m staying. I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll keep an eye for him from the van.”

“Thanks, Jones.”

 

*******

 

It was eerily quiet.

From time to time, he would hear a taxi cab honk, or the bus pull to a stop.

He glanced at the digital clock on the stand. 1:23.

He began to entertain the possibility that there would no visitor from monsters tonight. He ran his palm over the sheets; they were cool to his touch. _God, what hell took place here less than 24 hours ago_ , he wondered. He pictured Neal’s back, the bruises, the cuts and the anger washed over him.

_How could he not tell me?_

“Boss, someone just entered the mansion. I couldn’t get a read on the face.”

Peter’s eyes jerked open. He pressed his finger against his ear. “Thanks, Jones.”

He stayed on his stomach, his head lodged inbetween the two pillow. He controlled his breathing. _Keep it even._

The door opened slowly. Peter still did not stir. He felt a large hand run over his arm. It traveled to his back. As it went lower, he felt the other hand on him too. Now they were on his hips.

He shivered, no enjoying this. Not one bit. He felt the incredible urge to vomit right then and there.

_Stop! He imagined Neal yelling. And no one heard him._

“Nealy, I heard you fucked up real good today. The Young Brothers are still out there,” Kramer whispered.

Peter remained still, letting Kramer’s hands grab at his hips a little tighter. He felt hot breath blow into his ear. Heavy weight was atop of him, even though it was only the monster’s shadow that covered him.

“Now I’m going to fuck _you_ up real good,” Kramer breathed. “Though I’m pretty sure that was already accomplished from the rough fuck I gave you last night.”

Peter’s entire body shook. He actually felt frightened. Never had he heard Kramer use this voice; it was as though he had transformed instantly. And he never, never ever thought Kramer would be capable of doing what he had done.

A strong hand was clasped around his arm. It tugged and pulled. Finally, he was on his back. Though it was dark, Peter saw him reach for his pants. Kramer unbuckled his belt.

Peter reached into the waistband of his pants.

“Finally ready to play along, I see,” Kramer chuckled.

Peter cocked his gun. “Yea, I’m ready to play. And you better be ready to lose.”

“What the hell?” Kramer said, stepping back.

At that moment, Jones burst through the door. He turned the light switch on. His gun was raised and aimed. Peter stood up also with his gun in position.

Kramer had his hands up. His face contorted in confusion, but there was mostly fear. “Peter, wait a minute.”

“Don’t talk! Don’t you dare fucking talk!” Peter said. His hands were shaking from the anger searing through them.

“I was just trying to disci—”

“Discipline?!” Peter yelled. “By raping him!?”

“He wanted—”

“Say it,” Peter interrupted him, lowering his gun to Kramer’s genital area. “Say he wanted it. I pray you say it.”

Kramer, with the absolute look of guilt ridden in his face, kept his lips shut.

“We go it all on video,” Jones said to Peter.

Kramer’s eyes widened. He knew he was done.

“Keep your gun on this bastard,” Peter said to Jones.

Jones nodded.

Peter lowered his weapon and put in the waistband of his pants, exchanging them for the handcuffs. “Phillip Kramer, you are under arrest for the multiple rapes of Neal Caffrey. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you.”

He cranked the cuffs around his former mentor’s wrist, making sure they were on extra tight. He pulled back on them, making Kramer lean back. Peter closed in, making sure his mouth was right against his ear.

“Do you understand these rights?”

“Yes,” Kramer said in a low and monotone voice.

“Your goddamn right you do.”


	8. Chapter 8

_“Why are you doing this?”he whispered._

_“Shut up,” Kramer grunted. His hands gripped tighter at the skin over his hips._

_Neal clutched the sheets. He bit his lip, pressing his teeth down harder and harder. Blood and pain had to be drawn; his brain had to focus on something else._

_Kramer’s fingers grazed his spine, up and up and up. They touched his neck. His hand grabbed it, squeezing hard._

_“You’re hurting me,” Neal said through his tears._

_Kramer thrust again, going in deeper than before. “Good.”_

Neal’s eyes shot open. A beige ceiling stared at him. He grabbed his hips, his stomach, his chest. He felt the plastic tube in his forearm. He glanced to his left, seeing the IV.

He forced himself up into a sitting position, taking in more of the sterile smell. His knees curled up to his chest, allowing him rest his forehead on them.

_Breathe._

“Hey,” Peter said walking in. His eyes scrunched together. “Hey—what’s wrong?”

But Neal didn’t hear him.

_Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale._

Peter’s hand grazed his forearm, immediately invoking Neal’s head to spring upright.

Sweat licked every inch of his exposed skin. On his upper lip, dripping down the side of his face, hanging onto splits of his hair.

“Neal—”

“It’s not _good_!”

“What’s not good—”

Neal slapped Peter’s hand. “I didn’t do anything. I didn’t steal the treasure. It found me—”

“Neal, I—”

“You can’t do this. You just can’t. I’m going to tell. Peter will believe me.”

Peter bit his bottom lip. He took a step back, away from the bed.

Neal nodded. “You’re going to get in a lot of trouble.”

Peter didn’t respond, he wanted to though. But he felt Kramer’s hands on _his_ hips, felt _his_ hot breath in his ear.

“I’m sorry.”

Neal’s face contorted in disgust. “Sorry? You’re sorry?”

Peter nodded.

“Neal,” Dr. Brexler said, walking in. She had her nose down in a file. After no response was given, she looked up. Immediately, she saw her patient’s tense filled face. She glanced at Peter. “Is everything alright?”

Still, no response was given.

She placed her file down on the edge of the bed. She grabbed a small towel and folded it. Gently, she patted Neal’s forehead.

Neal’s gaze, centered on Peter, suddenly disappeared. He blinked several times, and then his eyes rolled back. He lifted his head, surprised to see Dr. Brexler touching him.

“Neal, would you like some water?” she asked.

He swallowed the bile in his throat. “Yes.”

Dr. Brexler glanced at Peter. “Alright, let me get a nurse in here.”

Neal turned his head. “Hi, Peter.”

Peter shoved his hands in his pockets, for he did not want his CI to see them shaking. “Hi.”

 

 

He was sent home the following afternoon.

Neal eased into Peter’s BMW. He strapped the seat belt over him, ignoring the pain centering in his ribs.

Peter glanced sideways. He felt absolutely sick. He was supposed to protect Neal, he was supposed to prevent the kind of pain Neal was sure to endure in prison. And now, watching him, swimming in a pair of his sweat pants and hoodie because his own clothes had been taken as ‘evidence’, it was all the more clear to Peter that he failed Neal.

“Are you going to drive?” Neal asked. His voice was low, there was a crack in it.

“Uh, yea, sorry,” Peter said as he put the car into drive.

Neal picked at the leather interior as they turned onto the highway. “Can you drop me off at the motel? I don’t remember the name of it . . . the one you dropped me off at my first say out of prison?”

Peter knew why he asked this question. He cleared his throat. “I can do that, or I can bring you to my house.”

“I don’t care,” Neal whispered.

He cried in silence all the way to Brooklyn.


	9. Chapter 9

Neal had lost an incredible amount of weight. Twenty-one pounds to be exact, though his frame was originally long and lean so it looked like quite a bit more.

“Eat, please,” Peter would say, pushing whatever bowl or plate was in front of him closer.

And Neal would nod and pick up the fork or spoon, but it always skidded across the rice or twirled the noodles. It rarely passed his lips.

“Goddamit, Neal,” Peter said one time after prematurely entering the upstairs bathroom. Neal was standing in front of the sink, innocently brushing his teeth. A white towel was wrapped around his waist, covering his freshly showered body. His spine jutted against his skin, his ribs accentuated when he breathed.

Neal never really responded.

He’d often sit outside, on the bench in the Burke’s backyard, throwing a neon tennis ball for Satchmo to catch. It was a very long month, but he had no real desire to return to June’s. Not yet anyways. He worked from the Brooklyn townhouse, Peter never pushed him to return to the office. He also didn’t say anything about how he was worried Neal would run off, now that he was temporarily outside his radius. But the light remained green. Neal suspected Peter had expanded it. That made him feel somewhat better.

One night, Neal remained on the bench outside. It was getting colder now that it was September, but enjoyed the fresh air.

“You coming in?” Peter asked, peeking past the door.

There was no response.

“Neal?”

“In a few minutes,” he finally said.

Peter sighed, watching the younger man, with his knee to his chest, biting on his thumb nail, stare into space. He pulled the lawn chair away from the table and dragged it towards the bench. He gently touched Neal’s shoulder, effectively springing him from his solidarity of doom.

“You wanna talk?”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Neal licked at his bottom lip. “Then no, I don’t want to talk.”

“It doesn’t have to be with me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Peter nodded, long and hard. “But maybe—”

“I don’t mind ‘talking’, Peter. But talking doesn’t change anything. The bad part of this over, he can’t hurt me again, and I’m grateful for that.”

But Peter could see Kramer was hurting him, still to this day, and it pained him to think that Neal didn’t feel entitled to accept that premise. “It just—”

“Can you please leave me alone? Just for the rest of the night, I’m sorry if that’s harsh.”

Peter nodded again and stood. He placed his hand on Neal’s shoulder, though he did not squeeze. “Don’t be sorry.”


	10. Chapter 10

_“You know, Phil—”_

_“That’s Agent Kramer, to you.”_

_Detective Lloyd Flanigan smirked. “You have unfortunately lost the privilege to be referred to as ‘Agent’.”_

_“Innocent until proven guilty,” Kramer said._

_“From what I hear, you’re more crooked than a question mark.”_

_“Hearsay. You should know what that is, shouldn’t you?”_

_“Okay. Well, than I suppose the physical evidence should get you what, fifteen, twenty years? Maybe twenty-five.”_

_Kramer didn’t respond, though the smirk on his face had already melted away._

_“I’ll tell you what, you start talking, then I start talking, to the prosecutor that is. I can maybe cut you a deal.”_

Peter paused the video. He leaned back in his recliner chair, unsure whether he could continue. What he was witnessing was Kramer’s confession. It was more than strange to see his former mentor draped in an orange jumpsuit, but it was more damning to see the smirk on his face, how he almost seemed aroused as he described the multiple assaults against his victim.

He ejected the DVD, finally accepting he didn’t want to watch it. He headed to his study, sat at the desk and turned on the lamp. He took a few minutes before opening the file in front of him.

He read the medical report first.

Then he looked at the pictures. The flash the camera made stood frozen, highlighting the red marks on Neal’s hips. They were deep and raw, undoubtedly in the shape of fingers that had been pressed against them.

His ribs were bruised; yellow and blue, bits of purple.

His back was scratched; dried blood around the discoloration.

“Goddamit,” Peter choked, crumbling the photo in his hand.

And then he started crying.

He couldn’t stop either. The tears flowed like the molten hot lava out of a volcano that had been awoken after a thousand year sleep, desperate to flood its newly revived opening.

A soft hand touched his back, rubbed it in circular motions.

“It’s okay,” Elizabeth said.

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose, desperate to control his outburst. “I don’t think it is, El,” he sobbed.

“C’mon,” she said, taking the photo from his hand. She placed it in the folder and closed it shut. He followed her, let her take his hand and guide him out of his study. Out in the hallway, she gently coaxed him to follow him towards the stairs. He glanced briefly towards the kitchen, past the window. Neal was outside, sitting on the damn bench.

“You need to lie down,” Elizabeth said gently.

Peter sniffled and nodded.

Once he was in his bed, with El in his arms, he actually did feel better, but the weight was still there, deep in his stomach.

“Kramer is going to jail for at least a decade and a half,” he said. His hand was intertwined with hers.

“Good,” she replied, rubbing his stomach.

He contemplated bringing up Neal, Christ, that was all he thought about as of late. The withering weight, the sagging skin underneath his tired eyes, the general jumpiness he displayed. But he couldn’t at the moment. He felt so incredibly rotten that he just wanted a minute with his wife, to enjoy her touch, her smell, her warmth.

And that made him feel so incredibly guilty.

He had an escape.

Neal possibly didn’t.

 

Neal tiptoed for the second time that evening down the Burke’s hallway.

Forty-five minutes earlier, he had come inside and had fully intended to go to his room. Not to sleep, but merely to rest. He rarely slept these days. But as he made his way to the stairs, he heard the sobs. They were soft but steady. It was coming from the study.

He was about to knock on the door that was already slightly ajar, but the scene before him stopped him. El was comforting her husband. A paper was in his hand, crumbled.

“It’s okay,” he heard her say.

Neal backed away from the door. He had no idea what had upset Peter so badly, and he certainly did not want to interrupt an intimate moment for him with his wife. Though as he sat on the bench outside for the second time that evening, he prayed it was not he who had upset him.

Due to his natural, curious nature, he decided to find out just what it was.

He knew it was wrong to go through personal belongings, but it was a compulsion, and Peter had caught him more than a few times doing it before. He turned the lamp on the desk on and sat. One file was it. He opened it.

The air hitched inside his chest.

It was _his_ body in the photos.

The victim.

The criminal.

The defenseless, dying animal.

All rolled into flesh that adorned magnificent cuts and bruises.

He looked again, this one was of his back. Bright red marks were near his hips, where Kramer had held him, pinned him, and then of course fucked him. The hot breathe swept across his neck, into his ear. The hand rustled through his hair. The pain he once endured exploded all over again.

“What are you doing?”

Neal looked up, though it was hard to see past his tears. “Why-why do you have this?”

Peter’s stomach rose to his throat. His heart beat so fast he thought it wasn’t beating at all. “I needed to make sure he got what he deserved. The prosecutor owed me more than a few favors—”

“Who told you you could look at this?” Neal demanded, wiping his tears away on the back of his arm.

Peter bit his lip and shook his head. “No one. I didn’t want to look, I had to.”

Neal could have yelled, screamed. Instead he placed the photo down, though it was crumpled in both of his hands, creased all to hell. He choked back sobs as his injuries stared at him, right there in open. “You win.”

“What?”

“I said, you win. You, Kramer, the FBI. It’s all a game. You guys broke me, happy? I’ll do anything and everything, including absolutely nothing, to stay in your lanes. Deem myself ‘rehabilitated’, ‘disciplined’ so I can get the fuck out of this.”

Peter felt his legs shaking. He held onto the wall, let it guide him towards the chair on the other side of the desk. “I didn’t do it to hurt you. The FBI doesn’t want to hurt you, Neal. I’m doing everything in my power to protect you.”

Neal, absolutely exhausted, with red, tears at the brim of his eyes, sadly nodded. Though he had become the expert in conning, there was such a sad truth to his next words that there was no question that that’s exactly what it was. “It doesn’t feel that way.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Neal—”

“I’m fine.”

But Peter heard the sniffles through the bathroom door. He placed his hand on the knob and turned but it remained lock. “Please—”

“I’m not mad, I just need a minute.”

“I’ll wait.”

“You don’t have to, really. I’m fine.”

Peter nodded, though he knew it wasn’t seen. Guilt ripped through the lining of his stomach. Neal had not appeared angry downstairs in his study, in fact, far from it. 

He was sad. Heartbroken. Shattered. 

And that was so much worse. 

On the other side, Neal turned on both faucets. He splashed the water on his face a few times. When he rose and looked in the mirror, it was easy to detect his salted tears versus the excess lukewarm water. “Fuck,” he whispered. He covered his face with his hands. He only saw a victim staring back, someone consumed, someone deteriorating. 

That’s not who he was supposed to be. 

He tried hard to contain the noise daring to escape from his lips.

But they exploded. 

Deep, long, jagged sobs. They rose from the pit in his stomach, crawled up his spine, and brought his knees to a withering dance. He lowered himself to the edge of the cold, porcelain tub. 

He sobbed louder, harder. He couldn’t breathe. 

He thinks he heard Peter say his name, but couldn’t really understand.

And then Peter’s body slammed against the wooden door. It swung open, a frayed splinter of wood hung limply off the side. 

“I can’t . . . I can’t stop,” Neal huffed between sobs. 

Peter grabbed a washcloth and ran it under cold water. He rung out the excess and seated himself next to Neal. “Lower your head,” he coaxed. “C’mon.”

Neal slowly lowered his head to his knees. The washcloth against his neck was cool and incredibly soothing. 

A full three minutes passed, and in that time, Neal’s breathing slowed. His tears lessened, though they did not stop. “What am I going to do?” he whispered. 

“I don’t know. I can’t tell you how to get through this. Christ, I still blame myself.”

The tears stopped and Neal remained motionless. He took a deep breath and lifted up his head “Sorry I freaked out.”

“Don’t apologize.”

Neal had no energy to say anything else. His eyes went out of focus as he leaned to his right so his shoulder rested against the wall. 

“You want to go to bed? Maybe go downstairs, have something to eat?” Peter asked, studying him.

Neal exhaled and quietly said, “I like this bathroom.”

Peter looked around. In his opinion, it was nothing special, just a regular bathroom. 

“It’s small. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I kind of feel . . . safe in it.”

“Even when I just knocked down that door?”

Neal exhaled again, this time closing his eyes. “I knew it was you on the other side of it.”


	12. Chapter 12

“Step on the scale, Neal.”

He bit his lower lip, looking down at the device on the floor.

Peter sighed as he took a small step forward. He gently placed his arm around Neal’s and guided him onto the scale. He watched as Neal lifted is head and his eyes darted towards the tile wall. He would look anywhere except at the red digital numbers.

Though Peter read the numbers. 139. 3. “Okay,” he said.

Neal stepped off and pulled the navy velvet robe tighter around waist.

“The number is too low, Neal.”

He sighed. “I know.”

“Please make a conscious effort to eat more. I know I say it all the time.”

Neal picked at the belt hanging off his hips. “I want to start running.”

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Neal, if you want to run, you have—”

“To eat more,” he finished. “I know. I think it will help my appetite. I’ll want to, need to eat more. But I think the running would help, it always has in the past. It helps clear my mind.”

Peter sighed again. “I wish you would talk to someone.”

“That never worked for me.”

“Talk to me?”

Neal continued to stare at the tiled floor. “No,” he whispered.

Peter sniffled back the beginning of tears. “Why not? We used to talk about _everything_.”

Neal licked his lower lip but still didn’t raise his head.

“C’mon,” Peter said, raising his arm to Neal’s.

And Neal instinctively backed away.

“It’s not your fault what happened, Neal.”

“I know that,” he whispered.

“No, I don’t think you do,” Peter said a little more firmly. “You are punishing yourself. I see it. Not eating, not talking, not sleeping. You think that’s what you have to do to ‘repent’.”

Neal brought the back of his hand across his eyes, wiping away the fallen tears.

“It’s not your fault,” Peter reiterated.

“Stop it, Peter.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Stop.”

“It’s not your fault. Phillip Kr—”

“Don’t! Don’t say his name, don’t you dare say his name!” Neal screamed, shoving his palms into Peter’s chest. Peter stumbled back an inch. He was not hurt, no, he was intrigued.

“Why, you think it gives him power, Neal?”

“No! It validates him as a fucking human being, saying his name. He’s not. He’s a goddamn monster.”

“You can’t let him control you, Neal.”

Tears now stained the younger man’s face. “Is that what you think? That he controls me?”

Peter nodded. “Yes. You’re letting him win. You’ve turned into a shell. The sparkle in your eyes is gone. Your legs can barely support the bones on top of them.”

Neal grabbed at his robe, closing it tighter near his chest. He felt lightheaded, tired, drained. The tears fell onto the velvet material. He raised his head, looking his counterpart in the eye.

“Fine. Phillip Kramer raped me. Three times. Each was worse than the one before. The first time he did it was on the floor of my kitchen. I bled for days. The second time was in the evidence room, you were ten feet away. He stuffed a plastic bag in my mouth so you wouldn’t hear me scream.”

Neal took a step forward. Anger was in his eyes.

Peter stepped back. Tears were in his eyes.

“And the third and final time Phillip Kramer raped me, I was in my own goddamn bed. He tore the skin off my back when he came in me. I’ll bet if I take off this robe you could still see the scars.”

Neal closed his mouth, his lips trembling, his stare hardening. Peter didn’t look away, though it was hard to see through his tears.

“Don’t cry, Peter. This is exactly what you wanted, isn’t it?”

He waited a few seconds, his stare never softening. Finally, he walked out. The creaks of the wooden floor beneath his feet indicated he was headed down the hallway. The door to his room slammed shut.

And of course, Peter, his handler, his best friend, his partner, was left leaning against the kitchen sink, crying.  


End file.
